A Bright Black Cherry Burst Quilt Spot in an Otherwise Dark Week

If you're wondering what the heck that post title could possibly mean, I should first explain that the situation with my stepdaughter has NOT gotten better at all- if anything, it's deteriorating rapidly. Her drug use, cigarette smoking and whatever other vices she's dangerously indulging in, I've now found out have been permitted- if not necessarily condoned- by her father, my husband, of course without my knowledge. Behind my back, in fact. Apparently he's trying so hard to be her buddy, he's forgotten his role as her father. He's also seemingly forgotten that part of being in a marriage is presenting a united front, especially towards one's children. Dissension among the ranks should be behind closed doors, not after the stepmom finds out about crap that the other two have been lying about and hiding. To make it even worse, things have also come up missing around the house. I've been forced to put a password on my computer, purchase a small lockbox, and hide certain items I'm afraid may grow legs and hop into J's hot little hands. Can you sense some resentment here? I sure hope so; I think I can even feel it oozing off my fingertips onto the keys.

Anyway, we are (or at least I am) taking steps to rectify these completely unacceptable activities, attitudes, and atrocities taking place in the former sanctity of our home. There is an elder at our church who owns a Christian counseling service, Genesis Associates; I yanked the poor guy to the side after services last Sunday and poured the whole sorry story out on him; he was gracious enough to offer to start us out with a mediation session between just Tony and myself (communication at this point has almost entirely broken down, reduced to epithets and personal attacks on both sides), then possibly lead into a moderate number of sessions necessary to relieve some of the communication issues and animosity. We may even bring J into it at some point, if she lasts in our household that long, or is amenable to such bullshit (to use her terminology). We'll see.

I was at a family function last Saturday- the 50th wedding anniversary of some semi-distant relatives. It was fun, but the highlight of the event was a short little jam session with my uncle Gary, which made me realize just how sharply I miss playing guitar.. I didn't realize how rewarding making music can be when one's soul is aching- music is a wonderful conduit for all of life's ills and injustices. Case in point: the blues.

Musical talent runs in my family- my dad used to be quite well-known in the area back in the late 70's/early 80's. He- Zane Goodrick- played a combination of good ol' boy country, Southern rock, and classic rock (Stones; Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; John Prine- all faves as far as I can recall, along with hundreds upon hundreds of others). My pops was that breed of musician that was mainly in it for the song in it's entirety- something I inherited- he eschewed the fancy leads and exact chord changes for the basic feel of the song... one that everyone in the audience can recognize with joy, sing along to at the top of their lungs, and just generally enjoy as a package deal.

I learned from my dad at the age of around 12 or 13; didn't get serious til my late teens, but then really became devoted once I discovered the wonders of Jimi Hendrix. At first it discouraged me from continuing playing- I mean, why bother? The guy had already done all that was to be done, I could never even hope to wash his sandals, to borrow a line from J the B. But then I looked at the flip side, and decided that instead of him being my inspiration and someone to try to emulate, I would rather just idolize him while sticking to what I did best- just plain playing songs. Any songs. Songs off the radio (I can usually pick 'em up by ear and fake my way through), songs listeners request- like "Hotel California" or "House of the Rising Sun"- I must've played each of those about a billion times apiece! Or as of late, praise and worship songs which I've scavenged tabs and lyrics for off the internet; most of them are pretty simple.

But one major thing which has kept me from pursuing this avocation (besides the demands of my job, son, and other real life concerns), this something which used to be a ha-huge part of my life, is the fact that I've nothing but a beater little pawn shop acoustic, plastered with stickers and with action so miserable one's fingers are complaining after the first barre chord or two; not to mention tinny, twangy tone and zero resonation, it being a 3/4 size no-name dreadnought to begin with. Embarrassing to take out in public, a pain in the ass to play in private, and generally just a dust collector these last couple months- after seeing and savoring the feel of a quality guitar neck under my now uncalloused fingers I was determined to kick that p.o.s. to the curb and treat myself to a real instrument, one that I could play the heck out of anytime, anywhere, just for the sheer joy of it.

So we went directly from the party in the Spokane Valley to Pawn1 in Post Falls, and lo and behold: there was an absolutely breathtaking guitar on display there right in the place of honor. I knew enough about the make and model to be in utter awe -not to mention feeling serious trepidation about the price tag- an Ovation Celebrity acoustic/electric with all the bells and whistles (built in all-new OP20 preamp which features three eq bands and a Pre-Shape circuit for killer tonal flexibility, chromatic tuner that's easy to use and keeps perfectly in-tune even when using open or non-standard tunings), not to mention the gorgeous finish on the maple body face: black cherryburst quilt, high-gloss; the signature curved mid-depth Ovation back seemed form fitted for little ol' me, too. All this just HAD to be too good to be true! Or at least too expensive!

Well, wonders upon wonders, some idiot pawned this beauty and Pawn1 was silly enough to list it at the ridiculously low price of $350.00. Being fairly loyal purchasers of electronics and jewelry at their shop we don't pawn- just take advantage of other peoples' idiocy for practically giving away their stuff to loan sharks in respectable fronts of buildings... we were even able to talk 'em down to 300, case included. I swear when I walked out of that building my feet didn't even touch the ground. I was so elated, I couldn't wait to get better acquainted with my new sweetie.

Haven't named her yet- any suggestions would be much appreciated. Maybe I'll be like Phil or JB3ll3 and hold a contest- the prize could be one serenade of the winner's choice. Like I said, I can play or at least b.s. my way through just about anything, so be it old or new, country, classic rock, alternative, blues, oldies, Christian contemporary, very little punk/metal/grunge (mainly from their strange tunings and my lack of interest in the music itself. Mainly I play for the love of it, the love of expressing my feelings through song, be it joyous or sad, the love of seeing faces of those who are listening light up with recognition or love for the song. I love it when they sing along, or jump in with a guitar or other instrument of their own (Herb, why don't you break out that banjo and lets cut loose with some bluegrass? I know "Big Midnight Special"... but that's about it, unfortunately. You should school me, old guy! I love learning from more experienced players than I.) And Stickman, do you play? What about anyone else?

My Uncle Gary runs a homeless assistance center called Fresh Start on Coeur d'Alene Ave in C'dA, actual address 418 Coeur d’Alene Ave. He does wonderful things there, mainly helping the mentally ill and those with legal/criminal issues have a safe place to vent, find resources, shower, etc. He also holds jam sessions, any and all welcome, every Saturday morning from 10 to around noon. This week, for the first time, I'm going. And I'm going with pride in my new guitar, hopes that I will be able to release some stress from playing- it used to work, why wouldn't it now? and especially just spend some time with another family member who really cards about me and while I was stuck in the dope scene, I shut him and many others out of my life. It's time to start repairing those bridges, and I'm looking forward to this.

Let's see if the photos turn out (they won't do this marvelous instrument justice, but at least they can give you a general idea of this thing of beauty I am so in love with!



Here's another one, unfortunately the high gloss reflects the glare a bit too much.


What do you musicians (or nonmusicians for that matter think? Is this not the most beautiful hand crafted work of art expressly made for birthing beautous music?

One Guilt Trip, All Expenses Paid

I've been mulling this over for days, wondering if I'm being selfish and petty, or merely looking out for our little family's best interests- and always end up right back where I started. Trying to discuss it with my husband is even more pointless: he's firmly convinced I'm being the former (selfish, heartless, petty, etc.) rather than the latter, and every time it gets brought up, a measured exchange of views quickly escalates into a full-blown fight.

And you know, I'm not even sure if this is appropriate blog fodder, hitting as close to home as it does; when the story involves personal details of people besides myself, I usually shy away from airing the laundry here. Be it dirty or sparkling Clorox white. But I've long ago gotten full clearance from Tonydaddy to share the goriest details of our lives in whichever forums I may choose, so I'm going to exercise that option now, in hopes that transcribing the situation may even help my thoughts fall into line a bit more clearly and eventually lead to some sort of resolution. That often does happen with me- I'm much more of a writer than a debater.

So here's the scoop. Tony and I have been together around 6 years, and in the beginning one of the reasons he became so enamored of me was because of the way his two daughters and I hit it off. Apparently, after his divorce, there had been quite the parade of women through his life, none of whom his girls were willing to share their daddy with. I was an exception, and to have finally found someone whom they liked, Tony was overjoyed to say the least.

The odd thing was that once we both went through the whole bloody process of end-stage drug addiction/sales, multiple arrests, drying out and cleaning up while incarcerated, managing to struggle our way through outpatient treatment, 12-step meetings, probation and the like- somehow Tony and I got closer, but the girls and my relationship became more and more strained.

Looking back, I think there were a few different factors involved. For one, changes having little or nothing to do with their father or I: J, the younger daughter, had evolved from a sweet little single-digit tomboy into a rebellious, sullen teenager. B, an awkward and shy adolescent to begin with, morphed into a dark, angst-ridden highschooler with multiple piercings and an attitude toward everybody. So it's not like I'm part of some exclusive club.

I think that they may have also blamed me in part, even if it were subconsciously, for the eventual downfall of their dad. See, when we first hooked up, we were living pretty high on the hog because of drug sales: lots of cool toys, cars and trucks with bumping stereo systems, a well-stocked garage in a home Tony still owned... and of course much of this ill-gotten wealth spilled over into J and B's lives as well. When they stayed with us, they were spoiled rotten. And every effort was made to shield them from the sordid realities of dealing huge quantities of dope. Oh, I'm sure they had an inkling- after all, we rarely slept; fed them but didn't eat much ourselves; dropped them off at Skate Plaza, Triple Play or the mall with wads of cash waaay too often, so we could "take care of grown-up business" and pick them up hours later.
So when the house of cards all came crashing down, it was Tony who got arrested first. I liquidated much of our "holdings" to bail him out on a $90,000 bond, only for him to be arrested again, on new charges, the next day. That's how demented our lives had become, and how well-acquainted the law had become with us. It was a relief, really, when the cycle repeated itself with me a few months later- I got arrested, bailed out, and was rearrested a few weeks later; both times with large quantities of drugs and paraphernalia.

So there we sat, in the crossbar hotel, probably within 50 yards of one another but of course unable to communicate except through collect phone calls to my mother, who would pass on messages, albeit reluctantly. She, at this point, was every bit as disgusted with us as everyone else in the straight world was- and NOBODY held any hope for Tony and I to stay together. After all, we were both facing long prison sentences, had basically lost everything (I had put everything in storage after the house was foreclosed on, but after being incarcerated myself, there was no one to make the payments), and it was common knowledge that toward the end we fought like banshees almost daily... so what future could a relationship possibly hold between two such idiots?

I'm sure the girls had picked up on much of this- after all, they're neither blind nor stupid; they knew Dad had been arrested for drug dealing and that Mom blamed his demise on Dad's trashy new girlfriend. And in their family, at that point, it was most certainly NOT fashionable to stick up for me, regardless of what buddies the girls and I had been before. As S.E. Hinton titled her book, That was Then, This is Now.

So for the next year or so, things were in limbo as Tony and I reaped the rewards of our short-lived drug-dealing career. What a career, really- sure, the short-term benefit package was alright; but the retirement package truly sucked. Somehow, we got through it and made a fresh start from scratch upon release. Not much of one, though- Tony was living at a halfway house, I in my mother's attic. Both of us were under the strictest supervision, something which Tony handled well but I chafed at, eventually exploding under the pressure and violating probation. I had managed to get a little apartment and a decent job, both of which I lost as I was sentenced to my full time in prison- four solid years before eligible for parole, a potential of fourteen total (in the lingo: four fixed, ten indeterminate). I was devastated, to say the least, but I also knew this was all of my own doing, and I think at that point the inner change began to take place... actually, I'm sure it did: I've been clean ever since.

Of course, I didn't bother telling anybody else this- why would they believe me? I'd just let a whole lot of people down with my relapse and recidivism- no one was gonna believe I had all of a sudden finally decided to take my recovery seriously! The exception to this was Tony. Amazingly enough, he believed me- he believed in me, too. And he stood by me. He visited. He wrote almost daily. He stayed faithful and kept me convinced I was worth staying faithful to. It was remarkable, how solid this guy was. And while the months dragged by for me, Tony meanwhile was reestablishing a relationship with his daughters, trying to salvage the wreck it had become. He was still living at the halfway house while saving up money, so the girls couldn't stay overnight or anything, but they did start spending a lot more time together. And at this point, neither one of them could understand why their dad was wasting his time and money on a loser jailbird like me who obviously couldn't stay off the dope. Whatever friendship they and I had once had was totally kaput, try as Tony may to play peacemaker.

A miracle occurred: Judge Mitchell signed off on a "Rule 35", a loophole granting me alternative sentencing. Instead of rotting away in a state hold, I was given another chance at the Idaho Retained Jurisdiction program: 120 days in a minimum security prison which was heavy on the treatment programs and transitioning for release. I aced the program, something fairly rare. People were starting to wonder if I maybe was serious. I no longer had to wonder about how successful I'd be upon release: I knew. Something had shifted inside of me, and from that point on I was determined to do whatever it took to stay clean and out of jail.

. . . . . . . .

Fast-forward a few years. After a huge scare from the Idaho Court of Appeals- no fault of mine, it was due to the Judge's procedural error- and a brief period of newsworthiness, I escaped fairly unscathed: a scant month of incarceration, this time fully supported by friends, family and the community at large; a happy ending and reunion with my now-husband and newborn son. Heady stuff, to be sure. The silver lining to the cloud?
1) A great job- Daphne Taylor, owner of Namaste Foods, hired me on salary to work from home doing promotional mailings and some light online duties for her company. I've since been promoted, gotten the hang of things in the allergen-free market, and adore being able to work from home while raising my son.
2) A great church- His Place, where Tony and I have grown closer by including God in our marriage and every other part of our lives.
3) This blog- as well as HBO, some online buddies and real-world relationships which all came about as a result of my notoriety.

So, all this and more has transpired over the last I don't know how long, but to travel back to the issue which inspired this post: J and B are now both somewhat troubled girls, J in particular, and their relationship with their mom is strained to the point where B is living in the Seattle area with a friend of the family (at 18 years of age, something she is entitled to do) and J, while still technically residing with her mom, is rebelling so viciously that if something isn't done, their relationship may be damaged to the point where the law is forced to step in. Yeah, it's that bad.

B lived with us for a short time last year, attending school in this district for maybe a semester, before deciding her uncle's house was much more fun- after all, we were out in the middle of nowhere, led staid, boring lives, and a kid brother wasn't as fun to live with as he was to visit. And heaven forbid she would be asked to do some chores around the house, maybe wash a dish or clean her room from time to time!
Bottom line was, it didn't work. There was a mild clash of personalities, and although there are no hard feelings now, I doubt she'll ask to stay here again.

J, on the other hand, has only had the joys of staying with Daddy and family over the weekends in the last couple years since we've lived here- which entails pizza, staying up all night on MySpace, movies, her friends staying over with her to keep her company, all that jazz. No reality check whatsoever. So of course, to her this seems like paradise compared with her mean old mom. Especially due to the fact that Tony is by no means a disciplinarian in any way, shape or form, and in pretty much everyone's opinion who knows her, J is in sore need of some discipline right now. And I concur, having been a 14 year old girl myself at one point- one very similar to J, as a matter of fact. I too was smoking pot and drinking at parties, cussing like a truck driver, and enamored of guys in leather jackets way too old for me. I can also relate to hating my mom at that stage in life, and sympathize with J's desire to escape her.

This is where the quandary comes in- on one hand, I want to help this child. She really is a sweet girl, despite the tough front and potty mouth. Her dad adores the ground she walks on, and is able to laugh off the school suspensions, drug use, and fighting. She shows a tender side to her little brother, and when asked to do the dishes or whatnot, only drags her feet I think for show. And again, the situation with her mom has just about reached the boiling point. I will feel extremely guilty if J ends up in juvie because I forbade her to move in with us.

Hell, I feel guilty already. Guilty for not just welcoming her with wide open arms, guilty for trying to talk this through with Tony, guilty for bringing up questions like: where is she going to sleep and keep all her stuff? we don't have a spare room. What if we go through all the trouble to get her in school and get her moved in, only to have her do what her sister did, change her mind a couple months down the road? Or worse, what if the problems escalate and next thing you know, we have the law knocking on our doors again? Are we really doing her any favors by bringing her into our home, when we both know full well Tony's not cut out to be a hard-ass? And don't even try to make me assume that role, that wouldn't even be fair.

But right now, J is staying with us. Sort of. I guess she's been dividing her time between here and her aunt's house- her and her cousin are really close: same age, same problems, etc., and of course it's much funner for her to be in town rather than out in the boonies where we live.
But things are still very much in limbo. Nothing has been promised, nothing has been laid out in the way of plans or rules or anything, and I think both her and Tony are halfway hoping things will just sort of fall into place without any big "talk" or any of that uncomfortable nonsense. And maybe they will, I don't know. Maybe the longer J sticks around, the more I'll warm to the idea of her living here with us. Maybe I'm just being unreasonable and cynical. Perhaps I should give her a chance, the way so many others have given me chances throughout the years. And even though at her age I personally was just getting started in my career of disappointing and breaking the hearts of those who cared for me, it could be that she is just going through a brief phase of it, one that could be cured if her and her dad would just give her a fresh start here at our house.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to give her this chance, but I'm not nearly as sure that all will work out for the best. And there lies the rub.

O Happy Day!

Well, it's been a long, rocky road, but I've gotten word that all my hard work has finally paid off. What am I referring to, might you ask? PROBATION!!!

I just got off the phone with my probation officer. She had submitted a request to my judge (The Honorable John T. Mitchell, for those who are interested) to waive my community service, and I've been waiting- with bated breath, to be sure- to hear back. See, the community service office had lost my records (see previous rant, I mean post), including the verification of 100 HOURS I had completed, and I was getting to the point where I was willing to do the entire damn thing over again to have it off my chest. I mean, I did all that months ago, slaving away for free at thrift stores and the Humane Society; nowadays, I don't keep track of my volunteering, but I would sure start if required.

I'm not even sure what happened- I remember turning in my card to the office at the courthouse and getting the little paper saying I was all done, turning it in to my P.O., and generally being relieved to have leaped another hurdle on the track of supervised probation. Then the whole mess with the Supreme Court overturning my judge's ruling came up, and I had much weightier matters on my mind.

When that was all cleared up, lo and behold, I was on probation again, and my new supervising officer was confused: why was there a record of my completing it in her files, but not in the courts'?

At her suggestion, I went down there, self-righteous and indignant, only to find that there were all new people at the courthouse- no one remembered me, and of course "computers never lie". Ha. Ever heard of operator error?

So then I was on a mission. It had been 18 months or so since I'd worked at the various places, but I made the rounds, asking the ladies who had signed my card back then to sign a paper saying they remembered me, or perhaps they still had records verifying my hours?

Struck out almost everywhere, but thank heavens for the Humane Society. They keep their records for four years, apparently to come to the rescue- not just to the poor kitties and puppies- but to reformed criminals such as myself! So I was able to Xerox verification of 36 of the lost 100 hours, which apparently was enough to convince my P.O. I wasn't full of B.S. (which, BTW, I wanted to do ASAP). And really, other than that, I didn't have a single blemish on my record anyhow, so she forwarded a request to the judge to waive the requirement, submitting the evidence- such as it was- that I had completed it and shouldn't be penalized for the community service office's error.

The great news, however, was that Judge Mitchell went even further- he recommended me for early discharge from probation. All I have to do is complete this year under supervision, which will be up in August. Then, apparently, he intends to sign off on my case completely. According to my probation officer, he thinks it's a waste of the taxpayers' money to continue to have me on their caseload. My sentiments exactly!

So... a scant two months under the thumb of the Man to go. The funny thing is, as I told my soon to be former P.O., it's almost anticlimactic at this point. I'm not rearing and chomping at the bit to be set free anymore- I don't do anything I'm trying to hide, you know? So really, it'll just be a relief to not have to shell out the fifty bucks a month they charge to "supervise" me (a process which entails my checking in every other month or so).

But, I suppose this is another milestone I was bound to hit, being on the path of the straight and narrow. I do find a sort of self-satisfied "weight off my shoulders" feeling, if I'm to be completely honest. And really, it's about damn time!

Coincidence? I Think Not...

I've been a pretty erratic poster as of late, mainly because of the small, sticky tornado named Jameson- of whom being the mother of is an extremely demanding and exhausting, albeit exhilarating, full-time job in itself. I still have the responsibilities that my actual paying job entails, too- and let me tell you, just because I work from home does not mean there's any less to do! Between trying to print out FedEx labels, pack up boxes for events I've coordinated in far-off places and get them mailed in time- and feed, clothe, entertain, rescue, soothe, holler at, clean, chase, change, and finally! put to bed a one-year-old... it's a wonder I get anything else done.

There's been a few things I've been itching to blog about- like our Memorial Day trip to Atlanta, ID (yes, there's an Atlanta in Idaho- it's a tiny little rundown mining town tucked away in the mountains north of Boise) and maybe I'll eventually get around to doing that; after all, I took almost 400 pictures and laughed my butt off all four days, so there ought to be a decent story there. But of course on the rare occasion I have more than five minutes to myself, the only leisure activity I have any desire to pursue involves closing ones eyes to snatch a blessed bit of sleep.

But this little story I'm about to impart is good enough for me to make time to type it out, and is the kind of thing I'm sure will be passed around our family for years. It's also the sort of thing that makes me cherish my faith, a faith that in part because of events such as this, is growing stronger and more secure.

Yesterday morning, I got a frantic call from my aunt- her son and his wife have a small child, a girl who is about five months younger than my son. We look forward to the cousins playing with one another just as my cousin and I used to, and since my little one is hitting the milestones first, they frequently call and ask for advice.
Anyway, my aunt asked me to come over with some baby Tylenol and give my opinion on what could be wrong with little Zoe. My cousin was at work, and his wife (who is very young and inexperienced) was home alone with the baby. She was pretty panicky, saying Zoe had choked on something early that morning, and although not in respiratory distress, she still seemed not quite herself.

We all examined the baby, and I honestly didn't really think anything was all that wrong- sure, she was crying and sounded a little raspy, but that could've been nothing. And yes, the baby didn't want to eat, but that could've been because she just wasn't feeling good. So I tried to reassure Trisha, the young mom, that the best thing to do would be just wait it out and call the pediatrician if things got worse. I told her that I could certainly relate with feeling helpless about a sick baby, but since her symptoms weren't drastically bad, Trish should just try to stay calm and give Zoe lots of love.

Well, several hours later, Zoe started bleeding from the mouth and nose. Trisha raced down to the emergency room, and the hospital couldn't find anything wrong- they x-rayed her stomach and lungs, did an exam, and told the frantic parents that Zoe probably just gave herself a nosebleed from crying too hard.

I should say that at this point, the whole family- including myself- thought Trisha was blowing things out of proportion, and that maybe the child just had a really sore throat or was coming down with something. But still, at my Bible study that afternoon, I brought it up to the other ladies and we joined in a spur of the moment prayer for little Zoe. This was at 4:15 in the afternoon.

On the other side of town, Trisha and my cousin- Brad- had taken Zoe to their pediatrician, where she was given yet another x-ray and exam. They were being shown the door at 4:00, the doctor saying, "Sorry folks, but we just can't find anything wrong with your baby." At this point Trisha broke down into tears, begging the doctor to just please, please look again- there HAS to be something, she choked on something and hasn't been the same since! Reluctantly, the doctor agreed- probably to just make them happy.

So at a bit after four o'clock, Zoe was again strapped to the x-ray table, and this time the technician took films of her mouth and throat as well.
At 4:15, the doctor again met with the little family, and his demeanor was completely different. Because the latest set of x-rays showed evidence of a sharp metal object lodged in Zoe's throat, where it was partially obstructing her airway and probably causing the poor little girl a lot of pain. Zoe was immediately taken to KMC, where surgeons ended up removing a small piece of aluminum foil with a thin wire attached to it that had pierced her esophagus.

I visited them there in the hospital last night, and after apologizing for not taking them seriously enough earlier, told them I had joined in an impromptu prayer for Zoe with around a dozen other women at our church- at 4:15 pm. Stunned, Brad and Trisha stared at each other for a moment, then revealed that that was the exact time the doctor had found the metal piece... finally. We all broke down and cried, and although Brad and Trish are professed agnostics, this moved them to the point where I got a call from my cousin this morning- sharing the good news that Zoe had been discharged, along with a HUGE apology from the E.R.- and he asked me, a little hesitantly, if he and Trisha could join us this Sunday for church.

They could've just passed off the time thing as coincidence, or said something like, "Thanks for praying, it's great to have a Christian in the family," but instead, it seems like it was a catalyst in their becoming willing to investigate this faith thing a little closer. Brad said that he in particular had been quietly watching my own transformation over the last few years, privately envious of how happy I seemed these days, and that, along with the small miracle of yesterday afternoon, had made him call with the request to come to His Place with Tony and I. And Trisha had apparently done some "bargaining" with God during the crisis, and since in her eyes God certainly came through, she's determined to hold up her end of the deal.

All in all, I think the whole thing turned out wonderfully- and if my cousin and his wife end up believers because of it, that'll be the best part of all.

Finding Serenity in Chaos

Once again, I find too much time has elapsed between posts... enough where I'm not even sure where to begin. In fact, at times I wonder if I should simply retire this humble little smorgasbord of thoughts and events and just stick to commenting on HBO. Lord knows I have enough in my life to keep busy- why complicate it with an online smattering of mundanity and miscellany?

I suppose the answer is that I feel driven to record at least some of what transpires in this chaotic jumble of joy and angst, be it once a month or every other day; whenever I feel the urge to type out my trauma or triumphs. I'd be willing to bet I'm not alone in this need- bloggers worldwide probably have similar motives.

This last month has been a mixture of why-me's and what-now's... starting with a theft which occurred at the Valley Mall while I was getting my son's one year photos taken. Laden down with the props (front-end loader, whirly-gig top, Horton the stuffed elephant), a massive diaper bag stuffed with several changes of clothes, Jameson himself strapped into his Jeep stroller, I opted to transfer some of the contents of my purse into a pocket of the diaper bag to lighten my load a bit. So in went my check card/ driver's license holder, keys, and cell phone. Thinking it would be all good as long as I locked up, I then stuffed my purse with its remaining contents under the seat, and headed on in to Penney's.
I returned after a wonderful hour of adorable shots (they do such a good job there) so I could stuff the crap back into the car and browse around with my son and sister while we waited for the photos to develop enough for us to pick out our faves. My first warning that something was amiss was when I noticed the door was unlocked, when I KNEW I had locked it. Next, I dug around under the seat and came up empty, when I KNEW I had stashed my purse there. Next, I noticed there was no ipod converter hooked up to my stereo, and the charger was gone as well. Funny enough, they left the book of cd's which was the entire Old and New Testament Bible collection. I almost wish they would've taken that, too- maybe they would've learned something about the selfish sin of thievery.

After realizing all this, I wasn't so much frantic as I was bummed out... I knew that nothing in the purse was irreplaceable, really. My checkbook was easily canceled out that afternoon, with my checkcard tied to the new account; my business cards can all be replaced. My lone credit card was maxed out anyhow, and a simple phone call solved that problem. The thing which I'm a bit worried about is the fact that my social security card was still in my purse- I had needed it for some forms earlier that week, and hadn't gotten around to putting it back in my files at home. But, like I was commenting on another forum, if whatever crackhead that stole my stuff wants to try to assume my identity, they're in for a big surprise: a criminal record, felony probation, and miserable credit that I'm just now in the long, slow process of repairing.

But I went through the obligatory process of alerting mall security; they said that there had been a rash of slim-jimming car break-ins as of late, and to not get my hopes up for the return of my purse. Or ipod and accessories, of course. Duh.

The upside of all this was how wonderful everyone I called to alert about the theft was... for instance, I had just purchased an area rug at St. Vinnie's, but hadn't gotten a chance to pick it up yet, since my husband's truck was over in Post Falls and I needed a babysitter before I could go pick it up and drive out to get the rug. I needed the claim ticket to do it with, though, and of course that was in my stolen purse. Once I explained the situation to the lady, she was super sympathetic and helpful to the point of even offering to have one of their guys deliver the darn thing, after the rough day I'd had. Now that's enough to restore one's faith in human kindness, don't you think? I didn't take her up on the offer, but it sure made me feel better.
I had also had a Bible study scheduled for that night, but by the time I was done with all the phone calls and other nonsense, I just dropped by the church and told the ladies I was just going to head home instead. They gave me a round of hugs and promised to pray for me, and that cheered me up immensely as well.

All this happened a couple days before Jameson's and my big trip over to the coast, and I was stressed enough about all the preparation for that, that I almost called the whole damn thing off before I realized I was working myself up a little too much, and needed to just give it over to God and calm the heck down. So I did, and after a good night's sleep, managed to get all our bags packed (you wouldn't believe how much STUFF a one-year-old needs just for a four-day trip!) and Tony settled in for a stretch at home alone (clean house, couple frozen meals for him to heat up- since we've been married he seems to have forgotten how to cook and clean).

Friday afternoon we loaded up the car- toys, clothes, carseat, portable highchair, stroller, car DVD player with his Praise Baby and Baby Einstein DVD's, and snacks for me and the mom, aunt and grandma- then hit the road. I mapquested it out to the ferry in Seattle, then the last leg of the trip to the Port Townsend island was only another hour or so; all in all it was only about 6 or 7 hours on the road. We had fun, though. Lots of stops, lots of pictures, a couple good meals... no rush, just good times with family. We made it to my aunt's house over there late in the evening, got a good night's rest, then packed our next two days with lots of trips to the ocean, a barter fair, some street performances downtown, even a ride on Uncle Frankie's Harley (a first for Jameson- he absolutely adored it). Then, a good breakfast and some tearful goodbyes, and what seemed like an endless drive home. We got back yesterday, and I think I'm still car-lagged. One of the best Mother's Days ever, though, I think- both for me, my mom, and my grandma (who is still recovering from her stroke, and thankfully handled the trip well, too).

More and more, I'm realizing that the best things in life are the memories we accumulate with our family and friends- especially when time flies by so quickly. You never know how long you'll have with someone you care about: their time- or yours!- could come before you know it, before you have a chance to say goodbye or to make peace, so sharing good times and cherishing every moment we have is paramount to just about anything else- be it material goods, careers, wasted time staring incessantly at either the idiot box or the computer... there's so much more to life, and why waste it on solitary activities when you could be sharing precious moments with our loved ones?

Why? Petty resentments, family feuds and spats, jealousy or envy of "the Jones's"- all these pale in comparison to the joys and fulfillment we can savor when we find it in ourselves to forgive those transgressions- both real and imagined- against us, and simply love those who love us as well- even if they don't quite know how to show it sometimes.

Think about it. Think about what's really important, and maybe try mending some bridges, if necessary. What do you have to lose? The chance to make some more precious memories, that's what- and those you'll never lose.

My Sweet Son Turned One...

...And the party was a smashing success. To think I was afraid that my little guy would turn his nose up at his personal cake- no, instead, he dove right in, to the delight of all the assembled friends and family.

I was actually really touched at all those who came and showered Jameson with gifts, not to mention hugs and kisses. He truly is blessed with many, many people who care about him- not just Tony and I. I think sometimes we lose sight of that, since we sort of keep him to ourselves a lot. I mean, how much of a social butterfly can a one-year-old be, anyhow? Especially when he has to rely on a set of parents who aren't exactly party animals themselves these days to ferry him around.

He sure seemed to enjoy opening the presents, though:





And we played some silly games...



And then of course, the gratuitous cake scene:



All in all, it was fortunate that we had both immediate access to a bathtub and a pickup truck, in that order... one in which to scrub off the frosting, one to pack up the gifts in.

Now, I have an entire year to recover- before we do it all over again.

Another Lonely Night...(no offense, Son)

Lately, I've become sharply aware of just how lonely it is, night after night, while my husband works graveyard.

The routine is fairly straightforward: I make dinner, we sit down and eat; making smalltalk, watching Jameson rub his baby food in his hair, up his nose, practically everywhere but his mouth- laughter breaks the tension a bit, and I get up to brew a pot of coffee.

Tony'll pick up the boy and wipe the worst of the mess off, then cart him off into the living room so I can pack up his lunch box without a small child weaving and worming his way between my legs, tripping or entangling me at every opportunity. It's actually getting hazardous to open the refrigerator door while our son is in the kitchen- Jameson will lunge into the opening, plunging his chubby little hands into whatever's close, or, barring that, will yank condiments off the shelves in a fit of glee.

But night after night, come 6:45 or so, I've managed to pack up my husband's "lunch" (to be consumed at 3:00 in the morning; can you believe he actually has me enclose a little baggie of jalepenos, too?) and restore order to my little kitchen, then we all snuggle up on the loveseat- aptly named- for a family hug, and to complete our evening ritual.

He'll say, "Well, babies, I'm off," and with his black coveralls donned, his work boots laced up, and his wool cap pulled down over his ears, he heads for the door. I tell him to please drive safe and not work too hard. He promises yes he will and no he won't. We exchange 'I love you's, and I stand in the doorway until his taillights disappear from view. Then I heave a sigh, say something silly to the child cocked on one hip, and withdraw into the dubious warmth of our home.

I don't know why, over time, this is getting more difficult to do- both sending him off for the night, when it's a job in Spokane or the surrounding area, or sending him off for the week when he's in Montana or elsewhere. Either way, it's so hard to be apart, night after night.

Lately we've talked about a change of careers for him- the mine has reopened in Kellogg, and Tony worked there years ago. He's fairly confident he could get back on, but there would be quite a few drawbacks as well.

As disruptive as this current job is to our little family, the pay is damn good. So is the company- the owner is a fair, generous man. He would give Tony different hours if he could, but working at night kinda goes with the job- commercial refrigeration for Safeways, they don't want you underfoot in their coolers and freezers throughout the rush of the day. One day, if Tony continues to get promoted, he may be able to just do service calls exclusively, which would mean 9-5, but that's so far off in the horizon it may as well be a dream to us.

Mining is hard, thankless work, a hot steamy pit in the ground full of rocky dirt and grimy men digging deeper and deeper. Fraught with danger, too, I think, although Tony tries to persuade me otherwise. He can't quite argue the fact that both his father and grandfather died either directly or indirectly from Sunshine Mine- his grandpa in the big fire, his dad after an injury led to hospitalization, then a fatal medication error. So of course the pattern could continue, at least in my morbid fantasies.

The Silver Valley is beautiful, sure, but is it where I want to live? raise my young son? I'm not sure. All our family is here, as well as friends, our church, everything we know and love. It's kinda scary to think about just packing up and starting over. We've done that several times before in our relationship (and for me, countless times throughout my troubled life) and I was actually looking forward to staying put and putting down some roots for a change. Sigh.

So we're talking about it. I'm worrying about it. Jameson, thank God, is blissfully oblivious to all of it. And I will-for now- continue to spend night after lonely night here, alone, waiting for my man to make it home safe so I can put him in the bed I've just arisen from.

Momentous Occasions

After a month of mysterious silence, I'm returning to regale all of cyberspace with a deluge of pent-up creativity, lyric soliloquies dying to escape from my fingertips to the keyboard, tired of swimming in the dizzied soup between my ears, ready to burst forth in a swansong of sweet... something or other.

Scratch that. Let's go for more of a realistic tone, shall we?

As I type this, I can't help but gaze out my office window at the swirling mini-blizzard and then snicker at the calendar next to it... after a lull of semi-decent weather, the snow began to fall, and fall some more, on- irony or ironies- the first day of Spring.
Of course all of our winter paraphernalia was stowed away when we were fooled into submission by several sweetly sunny days of the faux-Spring. (Then Mother Nature said, "Psych!")
We use the abandoned chicken coop at the back of our yard as a storage shed (for sturdy items immune to residual gunk left behind by said chickens) and although I refuse to step foot in there (not knowing what I might step in), Tony trudged back there to fetch the snow shovel, ice melt, and what-not. He's pretty gung-ho about snow removal, something I suppose I should be grateful for, but at the moment I can't seem to summon up any emotion besides a sort of dull resentment towards the elements at large.

So... I've entitled this entry "Momentous Occasions", and believe it or not, the fact that my calendar claims Winter is now over was not what I am referring to.
Instead, I was thinking of a few other things that are happening in my little universe, things that once I sit back and count off on my fingers, seem faintly surprising.

One: Tony's and my wedding anniversary was yesterday. We've now been officially together for a scant year, although the unofficial length is more like six. I simply had one of those fits of old-fashionedness last March, and demanded that we tie the knot before our son was born. So we did.
Two: Speaking of our son, he was born ten days after that glorious event at the Hitching Post, so will be turning one year old April 10th. Unbelievable. Never has the expression "time flies" been so apt. I mean, looking back, it just seems like a blur of oohing and aahing over baby milestones- him rolling over, sprouting teeth, crawling, sitting up, graduating to juice and baby food, then walking- first with staggering hesitation and lots of falling down, then more confidently... now he's mimicking sounds and gestures (making him say, "ma-ma-ma-ma" is my personal favorite, of course) and I've had to install child safety latches and gates throughout the house to quell his insatiable curiosity. Amazing.
So of course we're planning a big to-do... well, I should say I'm planning one- Tony's never been much for social niceties like birthday parties. Although I think he'll make a point of at least coming to this one. To give him credit, he remembers the date (the guy remembered our anniversary, too- even brought home roses and a card!) and has mentioned buying Jameson a Tonka front-end loader to go with his dump truck for a birthday gift.
But back to the party- we'll be having it at my grandmother's house, as sort of a way to have all the family over to see her as well. She's had lots of health issues as of late- I've mentioned her several times on this blog- and they culminated with a major stroke about six weeks back. Now that she's home and had the benefits of time and therapy, her speech and gross motor skills have begun to return to normal, and when I brought up the idea of having Jameson's party at her house, she seemed more animated and excited than I'd seen her since the event, so that sealed it. Hell, the party'll be mainly for our benefit, anyhow (it's not like the little guy will really know what's going on, other than his having a cake to plunge his pudgy little hands into and make a massive mess with, then more toys and the boxes they came in to play with after) so having the whole family together at her house will be nice, I think.
But back to the list...
Three: I got a raise at work. My boss actually informed me of this a little over a month ago, but it only recently took effect, as I only get paid once a month. I'm on salary, and since I've begun to take on new responsibilities- with additional hours necessary to complete them- my boss asked me to estimate how much time I was putting in, and when I figured it to be around 30 hours a week, she gave me a $500 raise. Sweet, huh? I now make $1500 a month for doing a job that I love, from home, with my son trying to "help" at every opportunity (this usually involves attacking the keyboard, tugging on the mouse cord, and wadding up important papers).
It's been a bit more challenging than usual with the new duties, but I think I'm beginning to get a system down to be a little more efficient. I mean, I say I work 30 hours a week, but if I'm going to be completely honest, I spend a lot of that time dinking around online, or while I'm going to the post office to mail things for work, I take care of personal errands, too. The real blessing of the whole deal is how flexible it is- I can pace out a couple of hours worth of work throughout the whole day, taking breaks to change diapers, feed the boy and myself, do housework, etc. Or just spend the day being a wife and mom, put both the little guy and the big one to bed, then do what I gotta do for work, with the added benefit of some peace and quiet to do it in. Sure, I end up burning the midnight oil a bit when I do it that way, but after my son's first six months of life, I'm used to surviving on less sleep than the average human.
And last but not least, Four: Tony and I were made members of our church, His Place, in a short ceremony in which we stood up in front of the congregation with our pastor, then we were presented a little certificate and sat back down amid lots of clapping and cheers. I guess we're still sort of semi-celebrities, or maybe a better way of putting it would be 'well-known success stories'... everybody seems to know our shady past and our battle to overcome it. Which, after a lot of hard work and overcoming others' skepticism, we've managed to give the saga a happy ending of sorts. Sometimes I almost feel like God awarded us our son as a prize for turning our screwed-up lives around- for getting clean and going straight.
Not that he's the only good thing we've gotten out of the deal- the church membership is a good example of some of the other changes for the better. I can count on one hand the amount of times I went to church while Tony and I were still using and dealing and living outside the law- and one of the two times was a funeral. Now, we both go every week, have a growth group we attend fairly regularly as well, and have a whole new circle of friends and acquaintances from there, too. An actual social life! With people who want nothing more than our company! Wow. It's pretty sad when I look back and realize, out of the hundreds of people I knew and interacted with in my previous life, how shallow 99% of the relationships truly were. Most of them were merely based on what we could get out of each other- drugs, money, etc. No wonder I was so resentful and lonely feeling all the time, even surrounded by people, with my phone ringing off the hook.

I guess that concludes my little list of amazing, momentous events in my world of today. Perhaps not everyone reflects on their own lists of anniversaries of birth or wedlock, milestones of promotion or membership, and feels such pride and joy- but it's hard for me to take these things for granted when I've never had such reasons to celebrate before.

The Unseen Battle

This was so powerful for me, I thought I'd share it here on Soul Doubt- Christians and non-Christians alike, you gotta admit: this is good stuff.

I'd go on and on in my usual manner, were I not recovering from a trip to the dentist yesterday. I got a filling and an extraction, and I don't know what it is- whether I have some weird reaction to the gas or anesthetic, or if I'm just so tensed up throughout the whole yucky process- but I always wake up the next morning feeling as though I just ran a major marathon the day before. I mean, every freakin' muscle in my body aches! Everywhere but the tooth! Or should I say, where the tooth used to be?

Plus, being in recovery, I turned down the pain medication and am opting for just ibuprofen and ice cream. So far, so good... I think I'll feel better if I take advantage of this semi-sunny day and bundle up the boy and go for a stroll. Stretch those muscles and garner some appreciation for my surroundings instead of staying cooped up in front of the computer all day, batting at little Jameson's chubby hands as they tug at the mouse cord (tail?).

Headless Chickens (of which I am one)

At least at times this last week I have felt like one... running to and fro, frantically trying to get this or that together with never enough time, a memory which seems holier than the Pope's oldest pair of boxers (strangely enough, I seem to be able to vividly recall the most arcane details from kindergarten, junior high, and an insane amount of useless trivia- just not where I put the car keys or which bills remain unpaid this month as of yet), and most of all, I can't seem to keep that even, mellow keel going, which I've always prided myself on and others compliment me on quite frequently.
"How come you always seem to know the right things to say at the right time?" or, "Man, I wish I could stay as calm and collected as you always seem to be," they'll say.

I credit much of this from being lucky enough to spend most of my formative years being raised in Kihei, Maui, Hawaii; a dream come true for an 11-year-old with a troubled home life and who was about to become a ward of the state. Aunt Marcie and Uncle Larry stepped in and rescued me, whisking me off to what I was sure was paradise on Earth.
Well, my young envision wasn't far from the truth. It was more beautiful that my limited writing skills can convey on this humble blog, more breathtakingly majestic in every area: the sandy beaches (both white and black sand), the dormant volcano Mt. Haleakala, which as teenagers we'd drop acid and wander the ancient hollowed out dried lava tunnels, spooked but thrilled to be in the heart of a forbidden zone of exploration; the ocean... oh, Mother ocean. God, how I miss the salty warmth of turquoise caressing currents of what feels like a living entity, serene one moment but easily capable of tossing one about like a shred of kelp if she feels like it.

Maui was particularly unique in that it had a curious blend of locals (Hawaiians, Tongans, Samoans, Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, various other Polynesians- then us. The haoli's. Whites. Foreigners. Or, if you were lucky enough to pick up the accent, dress accordingly, and look down your nose disdainfully on the tourists and hopelessly mainland whites, you could be referred to as "Kama'aina". That was me. I'd always been chameleon-like, figuring out my spiel as I went, if necessary, so fitting in was never a problem. So not only was I buds with the bradduhs, but I made friends with all the second-generation New-Agers, hippies, and Euros, too. Like I said, quite a blend there on the island. But I loved it. I hung out at the beaches where only the bravest of the white surfers went, haoli friends in tow- hey, they're with me- was all that needed to be said. In return, the ritzy, "trustafarian" rich kids dragged me from party to party up in the multi-million dollar beach homes out in Lahaina and Hana, providing the designer drugs to go with the designer clothes and Daddy's Lexus rides. It was a blast, years of experience I wouldn't trade for the world, and sometimes miss so sharply it's almost a physical ache, a twinge of longing for the sea air, a bonfire shooting sparks high into a star-studded sky on a sandy beach with a bunch of dancing, drunken kids cavorting late into the night- high on not only grass and beer, but the sheer ecstasy of youth and fearlessness, knowing we could do anything we wanted at that moment in time. No one could stop us- baby, we were born to run...

But back to the present, before I drown in nostalgia. There's just been a hell of a lot going on, to be blunt about it. Doctor's and dentist's appointments, probation officer meetings (the latest just informed me she'd been promoted so to finish out my last several months I'd have to have another guy take over my case. I'm sure he's overjoyed to have me, as I'm about as low-risk and low-maintenance as they get- I turn in my monthly reports, he files 'em. Nuff said). My boss had a surprise birthday party, where we all showed up at her yoga class to start off the evening, then caravaned to a gorgeous home of a lady friend of hers who put on a gourmet five-course meal, probably the best I'd eaten in months. Of course I sat through it in yoga garb, not having had time to change, while all these elegant female professionals reclined gracefully in their Donna Karan and their Givenchy suits. Bitches. Nah, it was okay. If anything, it made me vow to keep a gracious self-assured smile on my face throughout the evening, while I keenly observed every mannerism, every nuance, every possible hint I could glean of how they got where they did. I too have plans, and one way or another, I will get there. Not just naked ambition for status, success, whatever. Just... satisfaction that I have attained the goals I've set for myself, that I've reached the gold ring, and found it all I'd wanted. It may not be the multi-million dollar beachfront home, or even the six-figure income. But I feel certain that it will be joy in what I do, joy in how I've raised my son, joy in how my relationship with my husband is, and joy in my faith. That's my goal. Not peace, not power, not Cheshire-cat satisfaction, but sheer joy in life. And in living. If, meanwhile, I'm going through a phase where my head seems to have detached itself and I resemble nothing more than a barnyard fowl circling frantically, so be it. This too shall pass. It always has before. In fact, come to think of it, it's usually the precursor to a time of extreme relief in all I've managed to overcome despite all the obstacles stubbornly obstructing my path. And I find my faith strengthened as well, knowing that there's no way I could've possibly pulled off all that without some help from you-know-Who.

Side note, before I call this a night and get to work (yes, I keep oddball hours- it's easier to do my online stuff while Jameson's crashed out and we don't have to fight for possession of the mouse cord)...
The Blogfest was fantastic. I was super self-conscious of wearing my t-shirt which Digger was so kind enough to design- because although I warned him I'm just a little slip of a gal, he still ordered it in a Ladies' small (which hung to my knees like jammies). So, I walked in trying to look all cute and well put-together, not like your typical ex-junkie, but a regular 30-something who, yes, looks more like a teenybopper, but the effect was ruined when I had to drape myself in a giant shirt just because my name was on it and I felt like no one would recognize me or want to talk to me otherwise, were I not wearing it. So please, if I looked ridiculous, try not to tease me mercilessly about it- my ego actually is somewhat fragile, believe it or not, and I will probably obsess about any comments made (in good humor or not) about how silly I looked with my pigtails and pajama top at the 'fest. Sorry, I'm insecure like that. Being just recently digging ourselves out above the poverty line, I can't exactly afford an overflowing closet of trendy duds, so I was wearing the cutest, classiest outfit I could conjure up on short notice, and it got covered up by the (super-well-intentioned and very much appreciated, just ill-fitting) shirt. Wah!

Enough. I have a whole 'nother year to clothe myself in gloriously colorful verbs, adjectives and nouns of nonsensical alliteration, so hopefully by the time next year rolls around, you'll completely forget about my gargantuan tee and instead remember my pixie-ish smile and ready compliments to all you online commentors who, I hope to presume, I can now call you my friends. Believe you me, I am now indeed yours, so in the spirit of blogidarity, let the feelings be mutual.

Over Ten Years of Meth Use

What could've been me had I not changed my life and realized I was about to serve a life sentence on the installment plan.

Shoveling my Way Out of the Chasm

After perusing my latest post, I fear I may have sounded a bit maudlin, perhaps even on the verge of an actual full-fledged funk. Not that it wasn't entirely true at the moment; I did indeed forsake clothing for jammies, wandered aimlessly for the better part of a week around our home, and got very little accomplished besides slogging through and endless swamp of negative introspection.
But hallelujah, the fog has lifted. Being the analytical type I am, I can't help but try to pick apart my own fragile psyche, wondering which buttons were pushed by whom, what catalyst flung me from the morass of sluggitude into this latest plateau of pleasantness, why my angelic child didn't seem enough to bring multiple smiles onto my face last week, when usually he transports me into realm of maternal nirvana at the slightest babble or coo. And not to make too light of this, but I truly did need to ask myself some pretty uncomfortable questions...
Was I trying to fool myself into thinking "Problem Solved!" Got a little baby to keep me on track and living in a white picket fence world?
Am I slacking on the necessary tools I need to keep using on a daily basis to stay clean and sober (and therefore sane)?
Is it PMS? Or that other thing, what's it called, the syndrome where you get all depressed after having a kid... brain fart. I forget.

Whatever it was, is, or will be again, this one I survived none the worse for wear. And I feel as though this deplorable winter weather may have necessitated me coming out of my funk, if only to summon up an ounce or two of much-needed energy. You see, Tonydaddy was out of town for the week, hard at work doing commercial refrigeration in some podunk Northern Washington town, so it was just me and the little guy. When it decided to dump several feet of snow on us, I had to (ahem) rise to the occasion. (You'd get the joke if you knew me: I'm 4'11''. And am so immune to the short jokes by now I even make them myself.)

We were out of formula, diapers, assorted foodstuffs, and my disgusting, temporarily unvanquished vice- cigarettes. Not having a snowblower, plow, or snowshoes, I had to settle for a shovel and my ipod. After laying down the boy for a noontime nap, I suited up for battle. We're talking thermal everything, Sorels, Glacier Grip gloves, my Southpark beanie... the works. Grabbed the shovel, cranked up the tunes to the point where I could barely even hear myself singing along to it (Alice Cooper's Greatest Hits- the old stuff) and attacked that white shit with a vengeance. Two hours and several layers peeled off later, the snowbanks were towering on either side of our gravel circular driveway, and I thought I had a better than average chance of making it out with my front wheel drive Mitsubishi and its elderly- but studded- tires.

I was wrong.

I'd packed up Jameson, putting him in his little snowsuit which always reminds me of the kid from The Christmas Story; you know, the little brother who falls down in the snow and is too puffy and Michelin Man-ish to get up? and had him loaded in his carseat. I warmed the car up for a ridiculously long time, enough to where we couldn't see our breath anymore, at least. Broomed off the worst of the snow accumulation on the hood, trunk and roof, thinking the car might somehow run better without it. Ha.
The moment I gently pressed the accelerator, I heard the sickening sound of spinning rubber on ice. No traction whatsoever. Couldn't even back up- there was nowhere to back up to! I hadn't shoveled back there. Why would I? It was a massive job as it was just to do what was in front of me, let alone the remaining half of the circle (a good 40 yards or so).

So, realizing it would be fruitless to sit and spin (no pun intended), I hopped out and waded toward the defunct chicken coop in our backyard which now serves as a shoddy storage unit. Scavenging through the side area, the best I could come up with for traction stuff was a big bucket which I filled with some ancient straw, much of it caked with substances I really didn't want to inspect too closely. Tromping back to the driveway, I strewed and shoved and kicked and scattered, cursing a blue streak the entire time. Then I got back into the now gloriously warm car, glancing back at my sleeping son, and said a fervent prayer for the ability to get the hell out of this hated frozen stretch of drive.

Miraculously, I was able to do just that. With a jubilant shout, I gunned my way up and out onto the sloppy side street we live off of, fishtailing and skidding the entire way. Once onto safer ground (or asphalt, rather- at least that's what I remember it to be before it disappeared under all that white) I drove straight to the hardware store, intent on buying bags and bags of sand and ice melt.

They were out.

So was the next place I went, and the next after that. I was this close to pulling into Shwab's for a set of chains when I decided to check Napa instead. Thank God they had everything I wanted, and the man must've seen the desperation on my face, because he even packed it out to the car for me. Of course, I had a squirming baby on my hip, too- that probably upped the sympathy factor a bit.

Now that I was feeling a tad more prepared for braving the elements, it was off to the grocery store for vittles and whatnot. By now I was ravenous, and you know what they say about shopping while hungry. Seventy dollars and a bunch of junk later, my trunk was once again slammed shut and I was on my way back to my refuge from the storm.

The next two days were actually a blast, believe it or not. I said to hell with keeping up with the shoveling- I'd merely push the shovel around the walk each morning til I found the newspaper, then scurry back inside and watch the flakes swirl outside the windows. My son, as usual, brought me untold amounts of joy with his precociousness and boundless curiosity. I got lots of work done, scoured the house from top to bottom (easy to do when the man of the house isn't leaving messes quicker than I can clean them up) and devoured my way through the rest of the "Left Behind" series. Not bad for Christian fiction. Being the incorrigible bookworm that I am, I would love to read more worthwhile faith-based fiction, but quite frankly, most of it is sappy tripe. Of course you have your Bill Myers, your Randy Alcorns, and the greatest of greats: C.S. Lewis, but on the whole, secular writing is way meatier and more satisfying.

Okay, I kind of went off on a rabbit trail there. Back to what this post was really supposed to be about: I believe my angst was alleviated through good old-fashioned pioneerism, to coin a phrase. I had to buck up and get 'er done, so I did. No more moping around, aimless and lackadaisically losing my momentum which I had built up over these last several months; no, I had to kick it back up a gear and participate in my life again. If not only for me, for the sake of my son as well.

When my husband got back, he immediately commented on my newfound upbeat state, and lavishly complimented me on the "Mexican plowjob" -shoveling- I accomplished. (We can say that, he being Hispanic, and me being, um, Mexican by injection...) Another joke he likes to crack is: Q~ How do you turn your dishwasher into a snowblower? A~ Buy your wife a shovel. Ha. Ha. Ha.

It strikes me as somewhat curious that much of what I write here I attempt to filter and slant to make all seem quite well in my life. And don't get me wrong- I think that overall, I'm a fairly happy person these days, with most of my demons long since exorcised or at least beaten into submission. But of course things aren't always A-OK, I still live daily with doubts and fears and misgivings and guilt, and at times my happy face is just that: a face.

I would say that this last week has been more difficult than most. I've caught myself several times slipping into a semi-daze of depression- never quite getting going throughout the day, just spending my time wandering through the house in my pajamas, drinking cup after cup of coffee but not eating... bouncing aimlessly from site to site but finding little of interest online... attempting to escape through the reading of a good book, but having to put it down after scanning the same paragraph a half dozen times yet still unable to have told you what I'd just read... electing to not answer the phone when it rings, for no other reason than instinctively needing to jealously guard my solitude...
Sadly enough, that's how it's been for me lately. I wouldn't categorize it as a full-fledged depression- after all, I'm still devoting a certain amount of time to the necessities. I guess I'm more just drifting on a sea of apathy, really.

Financially, things could be better; maybe that's part of it. There's a certain amount of strain between my husband and me in regards to my spending- we avoid talking about it, because it invariably leads to arguing, but the money issue lurks silently around the edges of our conversations nonetheless. I agree that I'm careless with money at times; he obsesses about the green stuff entirely too much, to the point where I end up calling him a stingy, greedy bastard- words I instantly regret the moment they tumble from my mouth, but of course cannot take back nor assuage the sting of their having been flung. The bills always get paid, and it's rarely that we're significantly late in doing so. We want for very little, in my opinion. But with a child, come goals, and long-term ones at that- perhaps that's the source of the tightly controlled panic I hear in Tony's voice when he speaks about our future. It's difficult to imagine buying a home, paying for good schooling, and achieving a higher standard of living financially when we have loused up our credit so badly in our past, are still somewhat in debt with various creditors, and literally live paycheck to paycheck. Sigh. Now that I'm keying this paragraph onto my computer screen, I can empathize so much more with Tony- how stressful the role of "Man of the Family" must be, his overwhelming desire to provide for us coupled with guilt for not being "good enough", "rich enough", or "smart enough" to figure out a way to propel us up the ladder another rung or two. I want so badly to assure him of his worth, his success in MY eyes as a husband and father, in a way that truly hits home, but hesitate to even bring it up, afraid that I might fail miserably in my approach and just end up making him feel all that much worse, a subject of pity to be consoled. He's a very proud man, my Tonydaddy. But aren't most of them, for that matter?

So I stay silent, as does he, and we talk about inconsequential matters- I, still in my pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon; him, outwardly his regularly upbeat smiling self, but with shoulders knotted tense with the stress of trying to hold it all together. Both of us watching our precocious son intently as he struggles to keep his balance in this new, upright position, standing on wobbly bowed legs with a beatific smile on his face.

Good Times, Bad Times, You Know I've Had My Share

This last week has been one of ups and downs, smiles and frowns. Some of the bad news is that my hundred hours of community service (which took me nearly eight months to complete, and I finished back in December of '06) somehow has gotten lost in the labyrinthine system of the courts, and my probation officer called me this morning to inform me that it was my responsibility to rectify this error. She had looked through my file there at Probation & Parole, saw notations that it was being completed throughout the months, spoke with my former P.O. and gotten her assurance that yes, I had completed it, and that I had shown her the slips; but the Community Service Office at the courthouse apparently has no record of any of it being done, so she was assigning me the task of going down there and finding out what they needed to verify it was done. Something that, frankly, I am not so confident in being able to do. I mean, like they're gonna just take my word for it? Of course I don't have any paperwork anymore- I turned it all in to them! And my P.O. said to not be so sure that just my putting a face to my name by going down there will do anything- they've gone through numerous staffing overhauls throughout these last couple years, and chances are slim that anyone from back then still works there. So it looks like my only hope will be to go down to the places where I actually did the community service, and seeing if they had records of it still, or would be willing to attest to the fact that I did it there. I can only hope and pray that they do... if not, I'll bet I have to redo the entire one hundred hours, all because of someone else's misfile. Arggh!

Another lousy thing is my grandmother's deteriorating health- this Tuesday I spent all day, from eight that morning til nearly three in the afternoon, hustling her from appointment to x-ray to blood draw to pharmacy... all in the hopes of avoiding another hospital stay. Well, this morning she was once again admitted to KMC, so all our efforts were for naught. Her congestive heart failure is causing fluid to accumulate in dangerous amounts in her lungs and extremities, and the diuretic her doc prescribed isn't working, so once again we're waiting with bated breath to see if she'll come out the other side of this. It's both disheartening and exhausting for all of us, the family, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be for Grandma.

On the bright side, tonight we'll be hosting my little sister and her fiance for a spaghetti dinner and some Scrabble. It's something we don't do nearly enough- entertain, I mean. All too often, I just toss together something quick and easy- why toil away all afternoon at a five course meal for just the two of us? So, this'll give me a chance to cook a great- albeit simple- dinner, have some great company and conversation, and kick some serious ass at Scrabble!

Another cool thing going on is Tonydaddy's great escape this weekend- he's going on a men's retreat through our church, or rather our church's denomination- the Evangelical Free Church of America. This is so awesome how it came about: someone actually donated the funds for his ticket, knowing we couldn't really afford it, which was why he had planned on skipping it. We could've swung the cost of the trip, but there was also going to be skiing, shooting, meals, etc., and that would've been a bit out of our reach. This way, he'll be able to enjoy the whole thing, thanks to some nameless Christian's generousity! Amazing how God works like that, when it's something worthwhile. I'd been praying for Tony to realize we could afford it, even if it would've made this month's finances a little tight, just because I knew how much he would enjoy himself. I mean, being with a bunch of other Christian guys out in the middle of nowhere, blowing stuff up, skiing his heart out (something he grew up doing almost daily but has had to give up in recent years)... of course I wanted him to go! And now he is. Thank you, God. Thank you, Good Samaritan.

This'll also give me a chance to spend some time with family during the four days it'll be just Jameson and I- we'll be going to dinner with my aunt and uncle, my good friend plans on accompanying me to church Sunday, and who knows what else will pop up. Probably a couple visits to Grandma in the hospital, too. And while part of me will be missing my man, I'll also have the contentment of knowing he's having a blast. Literally.

Taxes, Faxes, and Waxes

Taxes~
I got a packet from the IRS in the mail Friday. You know, the standard "Forms and Instructions" crap. I've been eyeballing it off and on all weekend, and although it's just an innocent sheaf of cheaply inked newsprint, it still has an ominous aura to it, in my opinion.
This may be due to the fact that I'll be filing quite differently than ever before. First of all, I now have a dependent! Two, actually, as my husband's daughter from his previous marriage lived with us for most of last year. Second, after lengthy discussion with the hubby, we decided the pro's outweighed the con's and we'd file jointly- also a first for me. And thirdly, but certainly not leastly- actually the most terrifying I think, I've been employed as an independent contractor these last six months since my release, so will be swimming in unfamiliar waters when it comes to filing; listing all those deductions and what-not. I've heard sharks and other dangerous creatures swim in those seas, just waiting to devour the ignorant souls such as I. And who the hell can afford an accountant? Certainly not I. How I long for the days of the good ol' online short form direct deposit, rubbing my hands together gleefully as I waited for my almost guaranteed return. Now, who the heck knows what's gonna happen. Will I owe? Will I do it wrong and get audited? Little old me? My man's the one who makes the big bucks, even after child support, so it just doesn't seem fair that my piddly little income has to be so darn complicated to compute. Yeah, I've tried to save some receipts of stuff I had to buy for work. Yeah, I've done my best to keep track of mileage. But, I just have this nagging voice sneering at me, one of the more unsavory characters from the committee who live in my head:
"You fool, Kendra. You're gonna get screwed, and you know it. Who do you think you're kidding? You don't know how to work a real job- the only thing you were ever good at was selling dope! And Uncle Sam will never forget how bad you took advantage of him when you were "serving your country". He'll get back at you one of these days, and don't be surprised if this is how he gets ya."
I hate that guy! Wish I could get him to shut up, but you know how that goes. They pick the middle of the night to whisper their negative nonsense, when you're at your weakest and all you want to do is sleep but can't 'cause they nag you to death, reminding you of all the embarrassing moments you've had since second grade and all the woulda coulda shoulda's in your life. I wish one of those fluffy sheep I try counting would crush their heads with a feces-encrusted hoof and silence them for good!

Faxes~
Normally I'm blessed with the ability to do my job from my own computer in my own office, in my own home. This is wonderful- if it were any different, my son would either be in some daycare (which I swore to myself I would never do unless absolutely positively necessary), or I would get very little done chasing him around at my boss's place- a non kid-friendly house, unfortunately. Here, though, Jameson's content to play with his myriad toys scattered strategically throughout our home, so no matter where his chubby little arms and legs crawl him to, he's bound to be sidetracked somewhere along the way, preferably before he reaches my keyboard to reach up and bang out things I really didn't want in whatever I'm happening to work on. He also can't seem to resist the cords- the ipod cord, the power strip ("AAHH!" I always shriek when I see him going for that one) or especially, his favorite: the mouse cord, which when he sees it wiggling while I mouse around, he assumes that must mean it's a game where he must tug on it in return, preferably with enough force to rip it out of my hand and onto the floor, where he then must immediately inspect it with his mouth..... Ah, the joys of motherhood.
But I digress. This little section was supposed to be about my ongoing war with FedEx, and their incredible assertion that 48 of the little boxes we mail every week, and which our company has been doing so for years, this time all happened to weigh 24 pounds apiece. Exactly. These packages were in 9x6x6 boxes, which is about shoebox sizes, except a bit shorter in length. Normally, once packed and labeled, they weigh between just under 2 lbs. or just over 5 at the most, depending on what's in them. So this claim of 24 pounds was freaking preposterous! What the hell did they think was in 'em- plutonium? Obviously someone screwed up somewhere, hopefully on accident- I'd hate to think a company as large and well-established as FedEx would stoop to overcharging by putting B.S. weights on mass mailing companies such as ours and just hoping no one would notice. Well, my boss is a stickler for details, and she certainly did notice. Her being the busy lady she is, she assigned moi the job of straightening the whole mess out. So I put together a graph of tracking numbers, dates, their incorrect estimate next to my exact weight (yes, I actually reproduced every single shipment by looking up what was sent in our records, and weighed it to get an exact number, down to the ounces and grams, even), and package dimensions. You shoulda seen me- I despise Excel, so slogging my way through this was quite the process, peppered with obscenities and shouts of frustration. But I got 'er done, and whipped out a subtly nasty cover letter to go with it- the easy part, for me.
After I was done- I had been given a week to do this, because of all the research involved, but my Virgoan tenacity and perfectionism caused me to finish it over the course of the weekend- I submitted it to my boss for approval before faxing it off, and she was absolutely floored. After showering me with compliments (me brushing it off like it was nothing but knowing inside I was nowhere near as skilled as she was thinking), she offered me a promotion on the spot. I'm not sure if any significant raise will be included, but doing the bookkeeping and invoicing will be a damn sight better than all those cursed trips to the post office. And, after the training- which I'll have to do at her house, I'll still be able to work out of my own home office, thank God.
Meanwhile, however, little Jameson is getting chased around my boss's office by me or her while we attempt to train me on the Namaste Food accounts receivable and payable. Don't know which one is more challenging, learning all these new data entry and filing methods, or trying to concentrate while corralling my child, too.

Waxes~
Ever been struck by the urge to purge one's house of all the accumulated crap and detritus of day to day life which does nothing but create clutter? Well, I got bit by the spring-cleaning bug (yeah, I know it's the dead of winter) and have been boxing up stuff for St. Vinnie's, tossing out bags upon bags of garbage, going though the overstuffed closets of my son (how could he possibly have more clothes than Tonydaddy and I put together?!) and recklessly ripping out the stuff he doesn't wear or has outgrown and bagging it up for the exchange store (I love those places- kids outgrow their stuff so quick; might as well just swap 'em out. [the clothes, not the kid] My faves are Kidlets in Post Falls next to the Post Falls Press, and Switcheroo in the Spokane Valley). I've rearranged both bathrooms. The office, too- difficult since I have baking mixes which I mail stacked every-dang-where, floor to ceiling, and I'm trying to organize it to the point where I can fit a futon in here for when Tony's girls stay the night, so they won't have to sleep on the couch. The operative word here, however, is "try"- not sure if I'll be able to downsize that much, no matter how creative I get. I did get rid of Fifi the lime-green IMac, which I was babysitting for a friend as collateral for loaning him some much needed money. Since she was just taking up space, unused and unloved (I'm entirely Mac illiterate), I blew off the loan and just gave her back to him.
I've been washing windows, waxing floors, cleaning the bathrooms almost daily now that Jameson likes to stick his hands in the toilet, or throw whatever's handy in there if so inclined. He also loves bathtime so much he'll crawl into the master bathroom, where the taps are facing up vertically, rather than horizontally in toward the tub; he can reach them, so he'll turn them on, wait and see if someone will come in when we hear the water running, and if we do, he'll break into a toothy grin, banging his pudgy little hands excitedly against the wall of the huge oval tub, like, "C'mon, Mommy, let's take a bath! Can we, can we, huh huh huh?" Now, if we happen to not hear the water running, he'll get impatient and look for things to throw into the tub. Like a spare roll of toilet paper (I no longer keep those behind the toilet, that's for sure) or the toilet brush. Yep, it's fun fun fun.
Anyway. Hope this nesting urge doesn't mean I'm preggers again! Nah, actually not possible. But something weird's definitely happening- I'm usually not THAT much of a Suzie Homemaker...

Fun in the Sun, I Mean, Snow

Okay, here's me trying to figure out how do to this- after all, it's been about twenty years...



Work in progress....



The finished product, hurray!

Just What Exactly Does "Auld Lang Syne" Really Mean, Anyway?

Although I'm still a little shell-shocked, exhausted from making the rounds over the holidays (Grandma's house for gift exchange, Mom's formal Christmas Eve dinner, etc.) I feel pretty good about this new year and all it may bring. And I'm not the only one! After going to my half-sister's house for a little gift exchange and visit, a few days after the actual holiday, she showed me one whopper of a ring- Ron, her man, had finally popped the question, and did so in style. I had to ask: "Angie, did he go to Jared?" Alas, the answer was no, so I didn't get to do the corny commercial cliche I was hoping on. Seriously, though, this was some really good news for them- it was getting to the point where they needed to either commit or split. I for one was very happy that they chose to get married; I like Ron. For that matter, I like Angie; they're both really great Christian people. Amazingly enough, I only just met this sister a little over a year ago, so am still getting to know her, too! She's another one of my father's offspring which keep popping up here and there every couple of years... he was quite the stud in his day, and sowed his wild oats all over town. Angie was introduced to me through my dad, and ironically enough, her and I are closer now than I am to him anymore. And as for her and Dad, forget it. She wasn't too impressed with him and his rather nonchalant attitude in regards to his offspring, and I can't say I blame her. I've had about enough of it myself. He disowned me one too many times, and unfortunately now that I've changed so much for the better, he has no idea what he's missing out on. But like I said, I don't need it; neither does Jameson. We have plenty of worthwhile family members to spend our time and energy on.

So, speaking of time and energy, I don't really have any set-in-stone resolutions, but a few ephemeral plans are wafting around my psyche, and some possibilities which the man of the house and I have discussed may very well solidify too. But I've been finding it hard to live outside of the here and now, something I ascribe to my having to chase a VERY active, adventuresome nine-month-old around the house most of the day. It's pure joy (mostly), but much more demanding than I ever dreamed. Instead of my life revolving around me, with perhaps my man a close second place, with work, home and leisure trailing behind that, my child is the epicenter of our little universe- his needs of course paramount to ours, and he seemingly devotes much of his time to foiling any attempts to impose a schedule where I can get anything done during the day. So I find myself scrubbing toilets at odd hours, juggling the boy while I cook meals, and gravitating towards toys which amuse him while keeping him captive- literally.

Anyway, all this child-rearing stuff by nature trumps my old habits of spending long hours in a bubble bath or on a quiet walk, musing and/or debating different facets of my life, making deeply thought-out decisions in a logical fashion while drifting through a rootless, independent lifestyle. So these days, any decisions are either made by necessity- again, revolving around the youngest member of the family- or simply talked about by Tony and I in a wistful, those-were-the-days tone, knowing full well our lives are too chaotic and full to do anything drastically different just for the hell of it.

Some things that have been batted about, however, are:
*Shopping for a new bed (ours simply is NOT big enough for two adults and a squirming, crying baby when he feels the need to be cuddled back to sleep in the middle of the night)
*My possibly accepting a lateral promotion from my boss, which would change my job from miscellaneous mailings and other shipping and filing duties, to handling the invoices and other sales-related chores. This is something I'm looking forward to, as I will still be able to do most of it from home, but will eliminate most of the trips to the post office. Sweet!
*A mini-vacation, just Tony and I- time and finances willing- that will use up our two free nights accommodations at either Seaside, Las Vegas, Vancouver (nope, that won't work, as Canada doesn't like felons) or lil ol' Coeur d'Alene itself.
*And finally, though certainly not the least in level of importance.... QUITTING SMOKING AGAIN!!! Yes, I'm confessing to the horrible fact that after almost two whole months of beating down that yucky nico-demon, the bastard got ahold of us again. Arggh! It started with just one or two here and there, but I'm ashamed to say that I'm back up to at least six or seven a day, and Tony's puffing away at the rate of almost an entire pack. Sheesh.

So there you have it. My tentative agenda for the next month. Which will be interspersed with, and possibly encompassed by all the musts and have-to's of day to day life with a young child and that ever-present four-letter-word: responsibility. Keep me in your prayers, nameless, faceless online friends, okay? As I will you.